


Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

by writin_nerdy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Ghosts, Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writin_nerdy/pseuds/writin_nerdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is finally adjusting to life without Sherlock Holmes. But two years after the detectives' battle of wits with Moriarty and apparent suicide, something happens that changes the army doctors' life. Sherlock comes back... but not in the way John expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John Watson woke up early that morning. After making himself a pot of tea and some toast, he sat down in front of the telly to waste some time before getting ready for work. Going to Saint Barts everyday was painful, but it was the closest hospital to him and the pay was good. He flipped through the channels, not looking for anything in particular, when a flash of a headline caught his eye. "YOUNG WOMAN FOUND DEAD OUTSIDE SAINT BARTS HOSPITAL," the yellow letters screamed. John turned the volume up and listened in. "A young woman was found outside Saint Barts hospital early this morning," the reporter said. "Molly Hooper, a pathologist at the hospital, came in early and found the girl in the parking lot of the building." The screen cut to Molly standing just by the main doors, her mascara running down her cheeks. "I nearly tripped over her," she said tearfully. "I thought she was passed out, but then I saw the blood and-" The camera swings away as she nearly doubles over and breaks into sobs.

John jumped up and pulled on a sweater and jeans. Grabbing his phone, he slipped it into his pocket before dashing down the stairs and out the door. He hailed a cab and jumped in. "Saint Barts," he said to the cab driver, a skinny man with slicked back brown hair. "O' course, sir," the driver said in an Irish accent. Ten minutes later, the cab stopped about a block away from the hospital. "Thats as close as I can get you, sir," the driver said. "No problem," John replied. "How much?" he asked as he climbed out of the car. "For you? No charge," the man said, and promtply sped away.

"That was odd," John mumbled to himself as he walked down the sidewalk. When he got close to the hospital, a policeman stopped him. "Lemme see some ID," the man said gruffly. "I work here, I'm a doctor," John replied. "Oh yeah? Doctor who? Show me some ID." John sighed and pulled his ID card out of his wallet. The officer spent a good three minutes examining the card before he finally handed it back to him. John stuck the card in his pocket as he walked into the parking lot.

He stood still for a minute, looking at the scene. Catching a glimpse of Molly, he made a beeline for the crying girl. "There there," he said when he reached her, immediately wrapping her in a hug. "Oh I'm such a mess right now," she mumbled as she buried her head in his shoulder. "It's alright," he replied soothingly. When she seemed calmer, he let go and she took a step back. "It's just... It reminded me of... of Sherlock." John nearly flinched at the name. It was the first time in a year- exactly a year, actually- as him and Mrs. Hudson made an unspoken rule to not talk about Sherlock in the flat. When Molly is as calm as she was going to get, John goes inside and gets ready for his first appointment.

Despite what occured that day, all of his paitents showed up. At the end of the long day, he clocked out and, on the spur of the moment, decided to walk home rather than take a cab. When he passed the spot on the sidewalk where Sherlock had landed, he stopped for a moment and gazed at it, remembering the fateful day.  _"This phone call, um... its my note. Thats what people do, isnt it? They leave a note?"  John could hear his friends voice breaking over the phone. "Leave a note when?" he asked. He had no idea what game Sherlock was playing, but he didnt like it. "Goobye, John." John went numb as he watched the dark blob that was Sherlock sail off of the roof of Saint Barts. Too late, John realized what was happening. "SHERLOCK!"_

John shook his head to clear the memory from his mind. His mind was vacant as he finished the walk home. When he opened the door to the flat, Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, making tea. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he called out as he went to put his phone and wallet on his dresser. When he came back out, he walked over to his armchair and plopped down in it, exausted. "Here you go, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, putting the tray of tea and biscuts on the small table by the chair. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he replied as she walked out the door. 


	2. Chapter Two

Two Weeks Later

John decided to sleep in on his day off. The only reason that he got up before nine was because Mrs. Hudson came to his room and shook him awake, telling him to "Get downstairs and look at the telly!" He rushed down the stairs and grabbed the remote for the TV. When he turned the telly on, it was already set to the news channel. "Another individual has been found dead at Saint Barts Hospital this morning," the newscaster said. "Police have made the decision to erect fences around the edge of the roof to prevent another death. Currently, there is an investigation underway as to why this sudden string of deaths has occured."

John sighed and fell back into his chair. "A third one?" he asked no one in particular. "The police has no idea what to do," Mrs. Hudson replied. "And they're all a week apart exactly. Some of the girls think its a cult." John shook his head. "I dont know what to think," he said. Suddenly he remembered- three weeks ago exactly was the two year anniversary of when Sherlock jumped. 

-Lawrence, Kansas-

"So get this," Sam said as he walked into the motel room. "Three suicides all in the same way, in the same place, each one exactly a week apart." Dean straightened up and closed the fridge door, an unopened beer in hand. "Sounds like a spirit. Where is it?" he asked as he plopped down on one of the uncomfortable twin beds. "London," Sam replied. Dean nearly spit out a mouthful of beer. "LONDON?" he choked out as he swallowed the drink. "As in London, England? Land of the Snobby Brits?" he asked, voice still scratchy. "Uh, yeah," Sam said. Dean shook his head. "Nope. Whatever hunters live in England can take that job," he said gruffly. Sam smirked at his brother. "You just dont want to fly over there," he said. Dean gave Sam his best bitchface. "Come on, man, It'll be fun. There'll be hot British chicks..." Dean seemed to be interested in that. A couple days and some credit card fraud later, they had their tickets and hotel booked and their bags packed. Bobby would take care of the Impala until they got back. 

Twelve exausting hours of flights later, the Winchester brothers were in London. Sam called for a cab while Dean got their luggage. When they got to their hotel, Dean dropped his bag in the entryway and did a flying leap onto the nearest bed. Sam did pretty much the exact same thing, neither of them bothering to change out of their jeans and plaid shirts or even take their boots off.

"Jet... Lag... SUCKS." Dean rolled off of the bed onto the floor and laid there for a couple minutes. As he was standing up, Sam came out of the bathroom with wet hair and a towel around his waist. "Dude, put a shirt on," Dean said as he walked into the bathroom. The hot water felt amazing on his plane-grimy skin, and he spent a solid hour under the flow. When he came out, Sam was wearing a clean set of the jeans and plaid getup that was practically their uniform. His long legs were stretched out across the bed, a laptop resting on them.

"So what'd ya find out about this spirit?" Dean asked as he rubbed a towel on his sandy hair. "Well, the first person to die by falling off of Saint Barts' Hospitial was a guy named Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Sounds like a douche," Dean remarked. Sam shot him a look and continued. "Well, three weeks ago, when the first victim died, was exactly two years to the day after the guy jumped." Dean nodded and plopped down on his bed, tossing the towel onto a chair. "Did he have any friends? A girlfriend? Someone we can talk to?" Sam nodded and turned the laptop screen towards Dean. The screen displayed a blog called The Science of Deduction. 'He had a blogger named John Watson." Dean hopped up and grabbed his leather jacket. "So he wasnt a complete douche," he said. "Lets go talk to this guy."


	3. Chapter Three

John sat down on the brown leather couch. Molly's flat was a strange mix of modern and traditional, a look that suited her personality. He had started coming over almost daily to check up on her and keep her company. He was starting to relax again when there was a knock on the door. "I'll get it," he called in the general direction of the kitchen, where Molly was making tea. When he opened the door, there were two tall men in suits standing in the hallway. "May we please come in, sir?" the shorter one asked, his American accent twanging. "Let me see your badges," John said guardedly. The two young men reached into their coat pockets and pulled out their IDs. John examined their FBI badges before stepping out of the way.

"We checked your apartment first, but your houseke- landlady said you would be here," the taller one said, brushing floppy brown hair out of his eyes. Johns eyebrows furrowed. "Is something wrong?" he asked cautiously. He didn't remember committing any felonies. "No, sir, we just think we may have found some new details regarding the death of Sherlock Holmes, and we wanted to ask you a few questions." John stiffened up at the mention of his friend. "There aren't any details to be found," he said rigidly. "He jumped off a building and offed himself. That's all there is to it."

Just then, Molly walked in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. "Oh, hello," she said, nodding at the Americans. "Please, sit down." They awkwardly took seats on the couch and John sat down in one of the red armchairs across from it. Molly poured tea for herself, John, and the tall man, who introduced himself as Samuel Pond. The other one, Dean Williams, declined and pulled a small flask out of his jacket pocket. "So sir... we just need to ask you a few questions, if thats okay." John nodded and leaned back into the chair. "Ask away." Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a bit. "So, sir, when was the last time you saw Sherlock alive before his death?" John took a deep breath and began. "Its was... oh, probably an hour before it happened. I was pissed off at him because he tricked me. He called me and told me Mrs. Hudson was hurt, just to get me back to the flat. Can you belive that? Well, anyway, I yelled at him a bit and stormed off to cool down. A while later he called me from the roof of Saint Barts." The boys nodded and glanced at each other. "Do you have any idea why he jumped, Mr. Watson?"

John looked sick. Molly reached over and put her hand on his arm, comforting him enough so he could talk. "He... he and this psychopath, Moriarty, were enemies of a sort. Bloody geniuses, the two of them, but Moriarty used that to build a web of criminals. Drugs, contracted murder, theft, hacking. you name it, he was probably behind it. He... he threatened to kill me and a couple other people if Sherlock didnt jump. But he destroyed Sherlocks' reputation before that. People hated him. If I didnt know better, I would think that in a way, Sherlock wanted to jump." He took in a deep rattling breath and held back the tears threatening to surface.

Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Um, thank you, sir, thats all we need. Unless your friend here-" "Molly," she interrupted. Dean smiled at her and continued. "Unless Molly has anything to add." She shook her head and the men stood up. "Thank you, sir. We will call you if anything more is discovered." John nodded and they walked out the door, closing it behind them.

\---

Dean took a deep breath as he walked down the stairs. "Damn," he said. "That guy has seen some shit." Sam nodded and opened to front door of the apartment complex. As they walked down the street, Dean took off his black suit jacket. The two quickly got tired of walking and hailed a cab. As they sat in the cab, trying not to breathe in the smell of rotten eggs, Sam got an idea. "Sir?" he asked, leaning forward. "Can you drive past Saint Barts, please?" the driver nodded and turned left.

As they sat in traffic beside the tall building, Sam stared intently at it. His gaze traveled from the sidewalk, up the brown side of the hospital, and landed on the roof. Just then, the car started moving again, but not before Sam saw a black-clothed figure out of the corner of his eye.


End file.
